We would always pull up a chair when Ron began to
tell a story.It wasn’t so much because
he knew how to weave words together in a way that held us in breathless
anticipation; nor was it because he was a master of the surprise ending.It was more because we wanted to be
comfortable while he rambled, often losing sight of the story’s point.After a good amount of time, he would reach
the end of the story and invariably end it with his signature dismissive phrase
“And all that kind of stuff.”Story
over.

Ron was a tall, thin man with a large nose, big
heart and a warm smile.You couldn’t
really mention Ron without adding “and Dean”.The two were inseparable.When
Paul first introduced them to me, he referred to them as his gay fathers.They were not, in fact, related to him by
blood, but they were by heart.After I
met them the first time Ron issued an uncharacteristic short reply when Paul
asked him what he thought of me.“He’s a
keeper.”

If I can’t separate the words Ron and Dean, it is
even harder to split apart the words Ron and summer. Paul and I would drive up
to southern Maine on summer weekends and watch our cares wash away with the
tide.The days seemed to stretch out
wider than the blue sky.At night we
would always meet Ron and Dean, who called Ogunquit, Maine their weekend home.

I should correct myself.It wasn’t Ron and Dean, but Ron and Crystal
Chandelier that we would meet.Dean is a
slight, quiet man, but his alter ego, Crystal Chandelier is like Oprah, all
hair, make-up and personality; but whiter, blonder, much thinner and a vision
of glitter, feathers and sequins. Ron always coordinated his suits to match and
would stand tall and proud, nodding and basking in the glow.

One summer the four of us rented a cottage together.It would be the first time that I met Dean as
himself.I am ashamed to admit it now,
but during the early part of our relationship, I often wondered why a man would
find another man who sometimes dressed as a woman attractive.While we sat on the deck on a sunny afternoon
that summer, Ron began a story with twists and turns and diversions that taxed
my ability to find a point.Every time I
thought the story had reached its conclusion, Dean would join us on the deck
with a drink; each time looking more like Crystal.When I asked Ron how long it took Dean to
complete the transformation he quipped “Four hours and a bottle of booze.”

Finally, Ron reached the conclusion
which was a story about the first time he saw Dean. “He was wearing only a pair of jeans, a
feather boa and walked right past me. I
thought, that’s the guy for me.”Just
then Crystal appeared, a blinding vision, and said “If you are going to do
something, it’s only worth doing if you do it all the way.” I could then see what Ron saw in Dean.It wasn’t the hair, make up or glitter. He loved him because he bloomed in the light radiated by Dean's fierce heart.

When we went into the club, people clamored to have photographs
taken with Crystal. They were celebrities. Ron stood lovingly by Dean’s side reveling
in the glow. At one point during the
evening I began to notice more men join us offering to buy me and Paul
drinks.After we left, I mentioned to
Ron that their celebrity had benefits.He looked at me and flatly said “They didn't buy us drinks because of Dean. They bought us drinks because when you were
in the restroom, I told them you used to be a gay porn star.”

Eventually summer ended and Ron’s own story reached
its conclusion. His knee started acting up six months ago.Cancer
had spread from his lungs to his entire body.He didn’t burden us with this knowledge.He simply stood in the background nodding like a sunflower until the end. But, I know something now that I didn’t know then. I underestimated Ron's ability to weave a wonderful story, capable of
great humor and a surprise ending.

Do not sit on a wide sandy beach under a blue sky
painted with wispy white clouds and listen to the romantic sounds of distant
bell buoys and laughing gulls. Do not drive along Route one with the car
windows down, salty sea air in your hair and marvel at rolling green lawns,
craggy ocean side cliffs and white clapboard homes. Do not sip from a glass of
wine in a harbor side restaurant at sunset while watching a sailboat’s
brilliant white sail bend against the wind.Above all, do not wander into an open house and talk
to a builder about upgrades.You will
fall in love and when he ultimately becomes unavailable? Your heart will be
broken.

Our affair began as all affairs do.We coveted. We desired.We had to have it at any cost.

His words were too hard to resist.“This view?It’s the best in the development” our builder, Mark said as he winked at
us.He was a burly man with a gruff
voice, but he knew exactly what to say. “You want a shower with two heads?I can give it to you.”He whispered.

Paul looked at me and he knew in that instant, I was
smitten.

The affair continued in a whirl wind of expensive
gifts: upgrades and options.Nothing was
too dear for our Maine cottage.Yes, we
must have custom audio visual, anything less than hardwoods, granite, stainless
steel and custom tile would cheapen our love, our precious.

We would visit on weekends, intoxicated by the heady
elixir of a new romance.We watched our
love grow.The bare bones of the frame
became smooth walls, the glint of the hardwood floors in the afternoon sun
flirted with us.

Then one day Mark casually asked “Have you seen the shower?”

It was a thing of beauty.Smooth glass and marble tile stretched from
wall to wall.Two shower heads on either
side beckoned to us.“Go ahead, step in!”Mark jokingly ordered us.

There we stood, two men fully clothed standing in a
shower looking slightly embarrassed.Mark laughed at us and said “You are too cute.”It was the pinnacle of our relationship.

But on the day of consummation, the closing, the love
began to sour.Others were introduced
into the relationship.“This is Hank; he’s
going to finish your tile.”Mark said casually
as he hopped into his Corvette and disappeared, leaving a cloud of dust in its
wake.

“But today is the closing, will it be completed? And
what about the stove, shouldn’t it be in the kitchen instead of on the front deck?”I asked Hank, trying not to sound jilted.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’ll be here all next week to
finish up that stuff, but I have a court appearance that I’m late for.I’ll see you in five to ten.”He laughed manically as he stepped into his
truck and drove away.

“He was joking, right?” I asked, searching Paul’s face
for answers.

“About going to prison or finishing up our cottage?”Paul answered my question with a question.I didn’t know which was more alarming.

We began to find telltale signs of infidelity.The tile in the shower was unfinished.There was no refrigerator and the dishwasher
was merely for show.Our home was only a
shell.A pretty shell, but a shell
nonetheless.

Over the following days, our time with Mark and Hank
began to dwindle.It was clear they were
spending time at other cottages.

Week after week we would receive empty
promises.“I’ll be by in the morning.”Hank would say.I would stand by the window trying not to
appear too eager.Hank would show up
sometime late in the afternoon, reeking with the smell of construction
materials from another cottage.

“You’ve been working at someone else’s cottage haven’t
you?”I demanded answers.Little things would get done, but his heart
wasn’t in it anymore.

Eventually, we found a support group.Other cottage owners came forward for a “Get
to know you” cook out.We met Renee and
Roger first.We poured our hearts out as
we sipped vodka tonics from our green and blue tumblers.

“Oh honey, we’ve been here for three years. You’re
nothing special.”Renee said as she took
a long sip and peered over her sunglasses.

“Are you a top or a bottom?”She quizzed me.

“Excuse me?”I thought I misunderstood.

“A top or bottom unit?”She asked, slightly annoyed.

“Oh, we’re tops.”I answered.

“Then the
dust from the unpaved street shouldn’t bother you too much.Do you know how long we have been waiting for
this road to be paved?Don’t worry, it
will get done.But, you’re on Maine time
now.Everything is a little s-l-o-w-e-r
here.”She took another long sip and
then barked “Roger, I’m empty!”

Sometimes, I will see Hank’s truck and Mark’s
Corvette parked in the development and experience a little thrill.But, I won’t let myself think about those
early days when they couldn’t keep their tools off of our cottage.I’m in it for the long haul.

But I idolized my big brother and continued to do everything he did, always one year behind. He got married, I got married, he had children, and I had children. When he ended his marriage he told me that he just wanted to be happy. After all those years of following in his footsteps I never looked up to see where I was going.

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About Me

Bill Dameron

Boston, MA, United States

I migrated from North Carolina and live with my husband in Boston. You'll find my
work in The Huffington Post, The Saranac Review and Blogher. This blog is a collection of personal stories about my
husband and our blended family of five children. They are a celebration of what I have found: that living authentically is the only way out. One day I will finish my memoir. Contact me at authlife@gmail.com. I would love to hear from you.